I would like to welcome the newest member of our writing team, Stephen Puibello. In his first post with us, he talks about disclosing HIV, insomnia and bipolar status in romantic relationships. Thanks for sharing with us, Stephen!

Full disclosure; HIV, bipolar and insomnia, and why full disclosure is important, not just for the safety of transmission for the man you are with, but for your own anxieties around being a dual diagnosed HIV and bipolar, mental health consumer, as insomnia for me is extremely problematic. It has ruined two relationships as both partners didn’t understand the severity, all they noticed was I wasn’t in bed when they woke up, I know not the right men for me. Not easy, but necessary if you are to find Mr. right, he’s out there.

“You’re too sensitive.” ” You’re too emotional.” Two of the most common sentences I hear, that and “You’re too literal.” Yes I am sensitive, and I am emotional, and yes I am very literal. It’s who I am and how I am. I know if I could change that I would, but unfortunately it’s the nature of the beast that is me.

New to a wholehearted identification with the LGBTQ community, new to thinking of myself—knowing myself—as gay, my skin was as thin as paper when it came to perceived attacks on my identity. I felt as vulnerable and exposed as in the months after people learned I had a mental illness, so many years ago. I felt naked, like by coming out I had stripped away some vital protection that came with people thinking of me as straight, or even bisexual—capable, at least, of feeling sexual attraction to men—and that now I walked around people with an intimate part of me laid bare. To be gay, bi, pan, asexual, or queer in some other way is so much more than sex, but that’s what I felt like everyone in my family and close circle of friends were thinking about when they talked to me. I felt so incredibly revealed.

I have struggled with identity all my life. One word to describe me, one concept or community that I could cling on to and immerse myself in. Kind, intelligent, giving. Bipolar, female, gay. Of course nothing encapsulated me, described me wholly, no matter how hard I tried to identify. I needed definitions, definitions of me.

I would like to welcome the newest member of our writing team, Kaity Marie Baldwin. In her first post with us, she talks about taking responsibility for one’s own mental health. Thanks for sharing with us, Kaity!

It took me a long time to realize how lucky I was: a psychiatrist, a therapist, medication. All of these arranged in my life to provide the support I so desperately needed but wished I didn’t. Who wants to see a psychiatrist for the rest of their lives? Who wants to need therapy sessions? Support can sometimes be a reminder of why you need it, and it makes you feel so helpless.

I never wanted to be a mother when I was young. Seduced by the freedom I could have as a single woman, at varying levels of “being about to take care of myself” financially and psychologically, I pushed onward. When I was 19 and in college I had an abortion. The father was irresponsible and unemployed, and I wanted to graduate. I wanted to live an exciting, satisfying life and knew if I kept the child I would be doomed to poverty and single-mother-dom before I had even gotten started.

One issue I’ve always struggled with is goal setting. Never mind that when I’m manic, I tend to set really high goals that I’m super-confident that I’ll reach, but also, when I’m depressed, I make goals that I believe are achievable, and yet I still won’t achieve them. Why? Because even though the goals I set are attainable, they’re made in a way that they appear overwhelming, and inevitably, I’ll abandon the goal, and beat myself up over yet another “failure.” It’s hard to motivate yourself to achieve your goals when they are too vague to actually define what a “success” is.

The last few weeks have been chaotic for me. I’ve been in a mixed episode, and starting last week, I’ve been hearing voices. Whispers, chatter, and someone calling my name. All either alone, or only with my partner nearby, and she’s confirmed that they aren’t things that she’s heard. I’ve also been feeling like the crows that wake me up in the morning are mocking me. I’ve known for months that something like this was inevitable, but it’s still jarring to experience a psychotic episode for your first time.

I was bipolar for ten years, and while rifling through the sexual identity coatrack I found I was most comfortable as a bisexual femme. In the gay bars of 2002 this was the look that got me most often ignored or disregarded. A decade later in a different city, I amped the look up to high femme, in a sense queering it, by making the femininity into camp, a form of drag or masquerade. With a blonde bouffant, pencil skirt, purple lipstick and platform heels, I could not actually be serious about being sexy for the boys, I scared them.